“She was probably killed somewhere else sometime before midnight and then brought here while it was still dark so it would be less likely anyone would see what was happening.”
“Yeah, not much chance anyone saw something.”
“Whoever killed her staged this little scene,” Tam Lovelady said. “He painted us a picture.”
“Mother and child,” J.D. surmised.
“He’s a sick son of a bitch, whoever he is.” Tam stared at the victim. “She looks so damn peaceful.”
“He went to a great deal of trouble to dispose of her body in such a dramatic fashion.” J.D. remembered a bizarre case in Memphis when he was a rookie agent where the killer had placed his victims by the river, sitting up in a camp chair and holding a fishing pole. Weirdest thing he’d ever seen. Until now. “He’s telling us something. We just have to figure out what it is.”
“He’s telling us that he’s fucking crazy,” Garth said, his voice a low grumble, as he came up behind them.
“What about the child?” J.D. asked.
“At this point, nothing more than the obvious—that the woman and the child didn’t die at the same time. So, if that’s all, J.D., I need to get back to work,” Tipton said. “We’re about ready to bag the body and the skeleton.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” As Tipton walked away, J.D. called to him. “We’ll talk again later.”
Tipton threw up his hand in a backward wave as he walked off.
“Are you hanging around?” Garth asked J.D.
“I thought I would, if you have no objections.”
Garth shook his head. “My crime scene is your crime scene.”
With a hard, craggy face, deep-set hazel eyes, and thinning gray hair, Garth Hudson looked every one of his fifty-some-odd years. Borderline butt-ugly, the sergeant wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but he was neat as a pin. Whenever J.D. saw the man, Garth was wearing neatly pressed slacks, a jacket, and a tailored shirt.
J.D. and the investigators watched quietly while Tipton slipped the blue baby blanket and its contents into a body bag and then carefully handed the tiny unknown child to one of his assistants. That done, he went back to the woman in the rocking chair. He covered the victim’s head, feet, and hands with individual bags and secured them with tape.
They stood by respectfully until the body was bagged and removed from the scene.
Before they could resume their conversation, a series of ear-piercing screams and mournful cries stopped everyone in their tracks.
“What the hell?” Garth’s gaze traveled around the crime scene and beyond, searching for the source of the noise.
“I want to see her!” a female voice shouted. “If it’s my baby, I want to see her!”
A uniformed officer rushed over to Garth. “It’s the mother. Jill Scott’s mother.”
“Damn!” Garth huffed. “How the hell did she find out?”
“My guess is from the live TV coverage.” Tam motioned past the crime scene tape to the horde of reporters chomping at the bit for a closer view.
“The whole family just showed up,” the officer said. “Mom, Dad, and kid sister. The mom’s screaming her head off.”
“Keep her out of here,” Garth said. “But tell the guys they’re to handle the family with kid gloves.”
“Want me to take care of it?” Tam asked. “I can go talk to the family.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “You can handle a hysterical woman a lot better than I can.”
When Tam gave her partner a you’re-a-chauvinist-pig glare before walking away, J.D. fell into step beside her.
“Do you do that a lot?” J.D asked.
Without slowing her pace, Tam said, “Do what?”
“Handle the unpleasant tasks for your partner?”
“Sergeant Hudson and I have been partnered for less than a month. I’m the new investigator on the homicide squad. But before then, yeah, I usually handled anything my partner thought was woman’s work. Other women. Kids. Anything that had to do with emotional issues.”
“And you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind. I don’t have anything to prove. I know I’m a very good police officer and I’ll be a very good detective. And I don’t think of it as a negative thing that I’m capable of handling some of the most difficult aspects of being a police officer.”
“And one of those difficult aspects is dealing with the victim’s family.”
“Can you think of anything more difficult than telling a mother that her child is dead?”
Debra Gregory tugged on the ropes that bound her red, chafed wrists to the arms of the rocking chair. Her seemingly useless struggles to free herself had eaten away skin, leaving her wrists and ankles bruised and bloody. He had secured her feet together and tied her wrists before he had left her. She had screamed for help until she was hoarse, but had soon realized no one could hear her and that’s why he hadn’t gagged her. Wherever he was holding her captive was so isolated that there was no danger of anyone hearing her screams.
Dark and damp. And as silent as a grave.
Terror had given way to frustration, and frustration to anger.
She had lost count of how many hours she’d been in this horrible, obsidian hell. He had left her alone for what seemed like days, alone in the pitch-black darkness. She didn’t think she’d been here days. Not yet. Only a few hours. Maybe a little longer. God help her, she wasn’t sure.
The last thing she remembered before waking up here was coming out of the gym late Tuesday night. Days ago? Hours ago? She’d been one of the last to leave shortly before closing at eleven and noticed that only two other cars remained in the parking lot. She had hit the Unlock button on her keypad before reaching her Lexus, and just as she’d opened the door, someone had grabbed her from behind. It had happened so quickly. A strangely sweet odor coming from the cloth he cupped over her nose and mouth. Her senses dulling as the anesthetic took effect. The weightless feeling as he lifted her off her feet. And then unconsciousness.
The police are looking for me. My family is doing everything possible to find me. I’ll be rescued soon. I can’t give up hope. I have to stay alive, no matter what.
When would he come back?
She was alone in the darkness, strapped to a chair, unable to escape, going slowly out of her mind. Suddenly a dim light instantly obliterated the darkness.
She turned her head sideways, but couldn’t see the source of the light. It came from somewhere across the room. A candle? A lantern? Maybe a night-light?
Light had to mean that he had returned. Not enough light to see anything clearly, just enough to make out shapes and shadows.
Debra’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her fear escalated quickly as she sensed him moving toward her. Closer and closer.
“Did you have a nice rest while I was gone?” he asked from where he stood behind her.
“Please…please let me go.” Her voice quavered. “I haven’t seen your face. I don’t know who you are. I can’t identify you.” She was bargaining for her life, pleading with this unknown, unseen devil.
He stroked her hair, his touch terrifyingly tender. “You’re talking nonsense. Of course you know who I am.” He untied her left hand and rubbed her chafed, bloody wrist before pulling her arm inward toward her waist.
“I don’t…” She drew in a sharp